In the annual hectic lead-up to Christmas, the query, "What time
is Midnight Mass?" is heard at parishes. Of course, the question is
not as nonsensical as it seems. In pre-Vatican II practice, only one
Christmas Eve Mass was celebrated, and not before midnight.
Today, Catholic parishes have multiple liturgies throughout
Christmas Eve, sometimes beginning in the late afternoon.
The last Mass is still named "Midnight Mass," even if it's at 10:30
or 11 p.m.
Most solemnities of the liturgical year have one liturgical
formulary, or perhaps two, the solemnity and its vigil. Multiple
celebrations might occur, but those are mostly repetitions of the
liturgy. Christmas is unusual in the Roman calendar in that historically
it has three formularies-three different Masses, and to
complicate matters, the vigil isn't one of the three. Moreover, the
first of the three is the Mass "during the night," usually referred to
as Midnight Mass. The traditional formularies don't envision the
modern phenomenon of celebrating the solemnity multiple times
on Christmas Eve, before that one.
So, what is the meaning of Midnight Mass? What are its
distinctive features, and how does it relate to the Masses of
Christmas Day, or to the Christmas vigil? How should we arrange
the liturgy in response to the demand for Christmas liturgies on
Christmas Eve? In looking at the origins and texts of the
Christmas liturgies, it can be seen that each is a distinct celebration
with its own character and response to pastoral needs.
The original Mass for Christmas in the Roman rite is the
Mass "during the day." This Mass is characterized by its use of
John's Prologue for the Gospel: "In the beginning was the
Word . . . and the Word became flesh and dwelt among us . . . ."
This is not one of the synoptic infancy narratives, staking a claim
for Jesus' messianic identity by crafting a detailed story of his
birth. No mention is made in John's account of stable or manger,
angels, shepherds, magi, or even a baby. Instead, John emphasizes
the pre-existent Logos, the Word through whom all things came
into being, now with us and among us, startlingly, in human flesh.
It is a profound reflection on the deeper significance of the
Incarnation, the identity of this child, uniquely one with God.
Compared to the synoptic "Christmas stories," this Gospel gently
sings the "true meaning of Christmas" in the relative quiet of a
late Christmas morning. It is rather a shame that so few people
experience this particular way of celebrating the feast.
The Mass at dawn was the last of the Christmas Masses to
be added to the Roman celebration of Christmas. It hearkens
back to when the Pope celebrated a Mass for December 25, not
just Christmas, but the feast of Saint Anastasia, with representatives
of the Byzantine Empire, for whom that saint was significant.
The texts for this Mass still focused on Christmas, though.
Of concern here, however, is the second Christmas Mass to be
added to the Roman scheme, the Mass "during the night." This
particular celebration, like many others in the liturgical year,
came to Rome from the Holy Land. Observances originating in
Jerusalem, such as Palm Sunday, Holy Thursday, or Good Friday,
have their roots in a distinct form of liturgical celebration, with
pastoral circumstances and a liturgical piety all their own.
Understanding this sort of piety is key to comprehending the
deeper differences between Midnight Mass and the original
Roman Christmas celebration on Christmas morning.
In the fourth century, Jerusalem became a destination for
pilgrimages. Pilgrims flocked to the Holy Land, as they have ever
since, to see the events where Jesus' story took place. Piety and
tourism went hand in hand. It was not sufficient to see the holy
places; pilgrims felt the need to pray there, too. Liturgical rites
and offices were developed to accommodate the crowds. It came
to make sense that, just as people wanted to pray where events in
the sacred story occurred, they would especially want to do so
when they occurred. The liturgical year was affected greatly by
this development, and several major observances have been situated
on the liturgical calendar to account for this desire for chronology.
One need only think, for example, of Palm Sunday (as
opposed to Rome's Passion Sunday) or Good Friday to see that
desire for chronology in action. Liturgical memory, anamnesis, is
never a case of "pretend" or "play acting"-it is far more serious.
We are not pretending to "be there" in Bethlehem, so many centuries
ago. But these pilgrims would have been entering into the
mystery of the Incarnation by experiencing being at Bethlehem,
and by celebrating the liturgy at night, when the story takes place,
as profound symbols. This aspect to the liturgical calendar focuses
on entering the mystery through the concrete symbols of time
and place. While not imagining that we are going back in time, or
putting on a play, through these symbols, we are, in a sense,
"there," because the mystery is made real among us here and
now. We participate-literally, have a share-in the narrative;
the story becomes our story, not locked into the past, but in our
The Christmas Mass "during the night" comes from this
sort of narrative approach to liturgical memory. In contrast to the
Roman Mass "during the day" with its beautiful, but rather
abstract, theological reflection on the depth of the Incarnation,
the Jerusalem-style Mass "during the night" turns to one of the
synoptic infancy narratives, specifically Luke, with its manger and
shepherds. The synoptic infancy narratives are a different kind of
text than John's Prologue. They most certainly make theological
claims about who Jesus is, but they do so with more concrete,
narrative language. This fits in well with the liturgical piety of
Jerusalem in the early Church. Our participation in the mystery
is, in this case, through concrete narratives, lived in concrete symbols.
At the Christmas Mass "during the night," the very time of
day is one of those symbols, encompassing not only some numbers
on a clock, but the very experience of night: the darkness
and the gentle hush of the late hour (in theory, anyway!).
To consider the distinct characteristics of "Midnight Mass,"
then, is to ask what the story is about, and for liturgical and pastoral
purposes, to ask how the story is true in the here and now.
We're not going back to Bethlehem, 2,000 years ago, but this
place, in this time, is somehow Bethlehem. The interpretation of
liturgy depends on teasing out how the story is still true, in our
In examining the Gospel infancy narratives, one can do no
better than to turn to Raymond Brown. In his major work, The
Birth of the Messiah, and its much shorter summary, An Adult
Christ at Christmas, Brown presents the infancy narratives not
primarily as stories about the birth of a baby, nor as historical
reports of such a birth, but as theological statements about who
Christ is. Each detail in the narrative is carefully constructed to
say something about Christ's identity and his role in salvation
history. Indeed, the infancy narratives say next to nothing about
the birth itself. Annunciations and prophetic utterances occur
before the birth and proclamations after it. These proclamations
are the point. Christ is proclaimed and revealed as the Son of
God, both to Gentiles (especially in Matthew) and to Jews (especially
in Luke). Brown's key point is that post-Resurrection faith
is being read back further and further into the accounts of Christ's
life. The Christ proclaimed in the infancy narratives is the risen
Lord, known already as the Savior. Just as with the first-century
Christian communities that produced these stories, the salvation
God has achieved in Christ is proclaimed to all people. The key is
Without going into Brown's range of detail, a few of his
main ideas in the treatment of the Lucan narrative are worth noting.
The historical setting, in the backdrop of the Roman Empire,
is the first. In the account in Luke, a census goes out from
Augustus, contrasting the imperial "savior of the world" and his
reign of "peace" with Jesus' role as the world's true Savior who
brings "peace to people of goodwill." Jesus is also the fulfillment
of messianic expectation. If the Messiah, according to some, was
to come from the line of David, David himself is echoed prominently
in the narratives. Jesus' birth was in Bethlehem, which has
become, for Luke, the "city of David". The birth was revealed to
shepherds, people in David's former occupation. These shepherds
are juxtaposed to Isaiah's claim that "the ox knows its owner and
the donkey its master's crib; but Israel does not know, my people
do not understand." In these Jewish shepherds, Israel does recognize
its Savior at the manger. Further, his mother "treasured all
these words and pondered them in her heart." At this birth, angels
sing praise in the presence of this child, just as they do in God's
presence at the Temple or in heaven. This child, said to be born in
the Davidic line, is proclaimed to be Israel's Messiah, and a new
reconciliation between God and humanity has begun.
This proclamation of salvation, of faith in the risen Christ, is the
message of the infancy narratives, the real answer to the rather
tired cliché of the "true meaning of Christmas." The point of
the narrative was not to recreate the birth, but to use the concrete
language of a story to stress who Christ is. Both Matthew
and Luke's infancy narratives go further, though. They proclaim
who Christ is for someone. (The significant differences in
the narratives are sometimes because of Matthew's Gentile
emphasis and Luke's Jewish one.) The risen Christ is being proclaimed
as Son of God and savior for different groups of people,
with different worldviews and religious language. Christ becomes
the answer to whatever expectations fuel people's hopes, and
whatever salvation means for them. As the beginning of a new
creation, Christ is also the challenge to settled sensibilities. This is
important, for both narratives spend far more time on people's
reactions: angels and shepherds adore, the shepherds' hearers are
astonished, Mary ponders, the magi pay homage, Herod lashes
out. These stories are about salvation proclaimed and faith
But liturgy doesn't simply proclaim; it actualizes. It doesn't
simply speak of these things, but makes them happen. The
Midnight Mass liturgy, then, situated at night to enter into the
memory of these nighttime events, doesn't just tell the story. It
does what the story does. The Mass "during the night" is itself a
proclamation of salvation, of the true identity of the risen Christ.
More importantly, it proclaims who Christ is for us, and invites
us into a faith-filled response.
The celebration of this liturgy should reflect and enact this
deeper sense of what the infancy narratives mean. It is not telling
a quaint, lovely story. Pageants and crèches are inescapably part
of the celebration, and perhaps appropriately so. After all, the
Mass "during the night" has its roots in a similar desire for concreteness.
However, although these concrete practices help create
a certain sense of "being there," the liturgy has to be celebrated in
such a way as to move beyond that. If liturgical memory is not a
kind of "make-believe" but a genuine participation in the reality
being celebrated, then these practices cannot consume our attention
or exhaust our effort. The liturgy enacts the event not by
putting on a play, not by pretending or suspending disbelief, but
by doing what the story itself does. Not only does a quaint sort of
re-enactment miss the mark in terms of liturgy's true purpose,
but it has a counterproductive effect. To watch a re-enactment,
however beautifully done, is to become somewhat distanced. One
can observe the story as it is told but stand apart from it. Perhaps,
it might evoke warm feelings, but that's different from a liturgy
that does the narrative by proclaiming salvation to us, for us, just
as the angels proclaimed it. It's potentially even further away from
a liturgy that drives us to respond, to decide if this Christ is worth
staking one's life and faith on. It can be heartwarming to watch a
child kneeling before a manger, and this is part of the beauty of
Christmas Eve celebrations. It's much more, however, for all of us
to be faced with the challenge of coming to faith and deciding if
we, too, dare to kneel before this risen Savior and see him as the
one who answers our deepest hopes. If it is to be authentic, the
liturgy must bring us to that point.
To celebrate this liturgy authentically, then, means to ask
who Christ is, not settling for predetermined answers. It is to
open up the question of who Christ is, of what salvation is, for
those of us who are celebrating and for all who walk through our
door. As the evangelists recognized when they first told the story,
different people will have different answers to that question, and
the liturgy needs to proclaim it faithfully to all of them. We know
that there are many people who show up that evening for the first
time since Easter. We need to think deeply about why they are
there. Our preaching, our singing, and all of our interactions
need to be rooted in a deeper reflection of what salvation is for
them. Anyone familiar with the language of scripture knows that
salvation is in no way reducible to getting to heaven, for example.
The entire point of proclaiming this Savior, this God-with-us, is
that salvation is to be experienced here and now, in our lives. We
shouldn't even begin to use the word "salvation" or "Savior" without
first asking what people need to be saved from, and there are
many, many answers to that question. In our world, people face
serious struggles. Perhaps the deepest of these, underlying many
of them, is a struggle with meaning, with finding some sort of
grounds for hope. If the Christmas liturgy is to be real, if it is to
do the story and not just tell it, those who come to celebrate with
us need to find, somehow, that God has acted and is acting on
their behalf. "This night is born for you a savior" has to become a
promise that the deepest hungers will be fed. This is no small task
for the liturgy to accomplish, and so the liturgy needs to be celebrated
with care and sensitivity.
It certainly presumes that, when so many guests come to us,
we are welcoming. Many of us are keenly aware of the particular
need for hospitality on this night. However, just as the story must
go deeper than shepherds and angels, our welcome has to go
deeper than a friendly greeting at the door. It needs to pervade
the way we celebrate and suggest to people that the liturgy is not
a quaint, perhaps somewhat thought-provoking, custom. If reasonable
people sense that the liturgy does not respond to the seriousness
of their lives, then the liturgy has come up short.
"Welcome" needs to include taking people seriously, where they
are, and gently showing them in our liturgical actions the One
who is God's answer to their searches. Many parishes and communities
make earnest attempts to welcome visitors and those
who are "lapsed," but the welcome comes off as "roping them in,"
a mere attempt to replicate year-round the attendance we see that
night. This is sadly insufficient. It falls short of why the welcome
is so important in the first place. The reason we want them there
year-round is not that the Church somehow needs big numbers.
We invite them to be part of what we do, so that they can encounter
Christ in the liturgy. This is not an occasion for a "guilt trip"
about Mass attendance. It can be, in the best sense of the word, an
invitation to conversion, to the faith experience of responding to
God's free offer of salvation.
What about those multiple Christmas Eve liturgies? Should the
liturgy of the vigil or Midnight Mass be celebrated on Christmas
Eve? Does the time of "Midnight Mass" matter?
Some ambiguity and difficulty exist in all of this. Historically,
the vigil is not one of the three Masses of Christmas. It was a celebration
right before the celebration of the feast, often celebrated
(as vigils sometimes were in later history) in the afternoon of
December 24th. The texts of the vigil sometimes carry with them
this sense that Christmas is still to come, though just around the
corner. The Gospel acclamation even starts with the word "tomorrow."
The first reading, from Isaiah 62, speaks entirely in terms of
the future: "the nations shall see your vindication . . . you shall
be called by a new name . . . ." The tone of the vigil is mostly one
of expectation, not of proclaiming salvation that is already here.
The Gospel does get into the infancy narrative, of course, this
time from Matthew's account, but it ends right at the birth, and
doesn't proceed to the proclamation of the birth to the magi.
This all means that the vigil, properly speaking, is not yet
the celebration of the feast. The first of the Masses of Christmas
was, and is, the Mass "during the night." In pre-Vatican II practice,
then, Christmas was not celebrated before Midnight Mass.
The trend toward celebrating Christmas earlier on
Christmas Eve responds to pastoral demand, but it is problematic.
In many parishes, the number of Christmas Eve Masses,
packed to the rafters, is multiplying, stretching back into the
afternoon of December 24th. The numbers at Midnight Mass and
the Masses of Christmas Day, on the other hand, are getting thinner
and thinner. A number of cultural factors may be at work
here, from a romantic sense of Christmas Eve in popular culture
to a redefining of religion in terms of the "family." A pastoral/
liturgical dilemma is apparent. When it comes to these Christmas
Eve Masses, there seem to be two choices: celebrate the vigil, in
which case most people are not actually celebrating the feast of
Christmas, or anticipate and multiply the Mass "during the night,"
which simply "caves in" to the creeping of the feast of Christmas
back to December 24th. This ambiguity is reflected in the
Lectionary. Interestingly, American Catholic practice generally
prefers the vigil, following the rubric that "these readings are used
at Mass celebrated on the evening of December 24" and even that
"the texts that follow may also be used for Masses of Christmas
Day." The Canadian Lectionary takes a different stance, calling
this "a separate vigil from the Solemnity of Christmas. For the
celebration of Christmas the readings for during the night are
used." The latter would seem to make pastoral sense, as it allows
all of those Christmas Eve attendees to celebrate the feast itself,
but it exacerbates the liturgical problem. The liturgical ideal
would be no celebration of Christmas before Midnight Mass.
It's hard to imagine that ideal to be possible in practice, though.
Which one is "Midnight Mass," then, and does it matter if a
Mass is at midnight? Not really. The formulary is called Mass
"during the night," not "at midnight." If celebrating at 10:30 or
11 p.m. meets pastoral need (like the needs of families for a more
reasonable hour), as long as such pastoral need is genuine, it can be
a reasonable decision. However, it at least needs to be during the
night, and late enough that one can see it as genuinely beginning
the celebration of Christmas Day. If a parish celebrates the vigil
throughout Christmas Eve, then the last one on Christmas Eve
can be the first (real) Mass of Christmas. If a parish uses the "during
the night" formulary throughout Christmas Eve, "Midnight
Mass" has, strangely, already been celebrated several times.
In spite of this dilemma, Christmas Eve is rightly one of the
most cherished moments in the liturgical calendar, and Midnight
Mass has a special place in Catholic popular imagination.
Celebrated fully, with attention to the depth of its meaning, the
liturgy of Midnight Mass is capable of being even more, of
embodying the Paschal Mystery in a profound and potentially
is an assistant professor of theology at the University of St. Michael's, University of Toronto. His doctorate in liturgical theology is from the University of Notre Dame.